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The Ophicleide

Written by Prof. Cabbage (of the horn mailing list)

The Ophicleide, like mortal sin
Was fostered by the serpent.
Its pitch was vague, its tone was din;
Its timbre rude and burpant.

Composers, in a secret vote,
Declared its sound non grata;
And that's why Wagner never wrote
An Ophicleide Sonata.

Thus spurned, it soon became defunct,
To gross neglect succumbing;
A few were pawned, but most were junked
Or used for indoor plumbing.

An so this ill wind, badly blown,
Has now completely vanished:
I nominated the saxophone
To be the next one banished.

Farewell, offensive Ophicleide,
Your epitaph is chiseled:
"I died of ophicleidicide:
I tried, alas, but fizzled!"